


Longed for and Lost

by arthurmorgan-s-heart (Silverblind)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/arthurmorgan-s-heart
Summary: *SPOILERS* How Arthur found and lost everything he had ever wanted





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request fill from my tumblr blog. Uploaded here for convenience - find me on tumblr - arthurmorgan-s-heart
> 
> Original request text: "Would like your take on Isaac and Eliza, maybe have the story in three segments, depressed sullen Arthur meeting Eliza and them talking, Isaac being born, and then Arthur finding the crosses. Again would love your take on them since I think they might've been cut content, Arthur in a trailer was shown walking away from two crosses"

Arthur knows he should be happy.

They’d had another successful take, and Dutch had decreed that the gang deserved to celebrate - the saloon they’d chosen for the night is alive with music and laughter, and yet, as much as he wants to, Arthur can’t seem to shake the sadness and longing that have been holding him for months now.

God, he misses Mary.

He looks at Dutch as he cradles a young woman in his lap, whispering things in her ear that make her giggle and blush; he watches as Javier leads a girl to a shadowed corner of the room, the both of them laughing as he takes her by the hand. He wishes he could be like them. But his heart had always been cautious - and even though he knows there is nothing involving the heart in what he sees happening before him, he could never bring himself to do it. Not after  _ her _ .

“You look like you need a drink, Mister.”

The voice pulls him from his dark thoughts, and the beer that slams down onto the table next to his hand makes him jump slightly. He raises his head to see a young woman, perhaps a bit younger than himself, looking down at him with a smile - there is an apron tied around her waist, and a tray tucked under her arm.

_ Pretty _ .

The thought surges through his mind traitorously as he takes her in; her face is youthful and smooth, and her eyes are a deep blue, gleaming impishly as she meets his gaze. Her long brown hair is tied in a braid, and her dress hugs the curves of her lithe body, offering a tantalizing view of the freckled skin of her chest. Arthur quickly realises he’s staring and looks away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

“Don’t need anythin’,” he half-growls, looking down so that the brim of his hat hides his flushed face. “Thank you,” he adds after a few seconds of silence, remembering his manners.

He feels her move away slightly; he looks back to the table, and sees that the beer is still there. He raises his head slightly to look at her again, and she’s still smiling. 

“On the house, then,” she says lightly. “Name’s Eliza. You decide you need somethin’ after all, you call me.”

She winks, and he feels himself blush again as she turns away. He watches her as she leaves, her hips swaying enticingly as she makes her way through the crowd. He almost thinks she might have looked back at him before disappearing into a group of drunk patrons, but he can’t be sure, and he dares not hope. He looks back to the beer she’d put on the table, staring at it for a few moments before reaching out hesitantly, as if afraid it would disappear as soon as he touched it.

It doesn’t, and when Arthur finally brings it to his lips, it almost seems to him as if it tastes better than anything he’d drank in years.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m pregnant.”

The words ring out in Arthur’s ears, as deafening as a gunshot. He’s tired and dirty from days of riding, and he had thought to swing by the saloon for a bath, a bed and a meal - all things that he had hoped to share with Eliza. But she’d pulled him aside as soon as he’d stepped in the saloon, and shattered everything he thought he knew with a few simple words.

“You sure it’s mine?”

The words blurt out of his mouth, blunt and accusing, before he can even think of holding them back. He sees her brows knit together, her blue eyes seemingly turning a stormy grey as she crosses her arms over her chest. She almost looks as if she wants to slap him - he knows he’d have deserved it.

“I ain’t never been with anyone but you, you know that,” she hisses. Suddenly, her anger seems to fade as a sob rips from her throat, and she looks away. “I’m scared, Arthur.”

He looks at her, and sees her for what she is, for what they both are - barely more than children, both as scared and confused as the other. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady the wild beating of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. He steps forward, putting his hands on her shoulders. She tenses at first, before allowing him to draw her into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder as she wraps her arms around his middle. “We’ll figure somethin’ out. It’ll be alright.”

“We’ll figure somethin’ out,” she repeats in a small voice, as if to convince herself.

He doesn’t say any more, simply tightening his hold around her.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur is not sure if he’s ever been as afraid as he is now.

The town is bustling and noisy, just as it had been when he had last been here, almost a year ago. Doubts had eaten at him for months after he’d ran away in the night like a goddamn thief, despite Dutch’s assurance that he had done the right thing - the right thing for himself, and for the gang. And yet, he could not shake the shame and regret of leaving without so much as a goodbye or an explanation; and so he’d decided to come back to make things right. If they could even  _ be  _ made right again.

It’s early in the afternoon, just a little past midday - Arthur knows that Eliza should be home. He hopes she won’t slam the door in his face, though he’d deserve it if she did.

It’s not long before he reaches the house where he knows she’d been renting a room the last time he'd seen her - months ago. He jumps off his horse, quickly walking up to the door and knocking before his fears could get the better of him. He takes off his hat, holding it tight with both hands to prevent them from shaking, tapping his foot as he waits.

“Never thought you’d show your face in this town again.”

The voice comes from behind him, quiet and frail, though the words are laden with a deep-seated resentment; he turns around, coming face to face with the owner of the house, an old woman who, as he had understood it, had served as a sort of foster mother to Eliza after her parents’ death - not unlike Dutch had for himself. Arthur steps aside as she walks up to the door with small, quick steps, barely sparing him a glace.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” says the woman - coldly, matter-of-factly.  _ And neither do I _ , Arthur can almost hear her think. She whips out a key but makes no move to unlock her door, seemingly waiting for him to leave.

“I just - “ he starts, almost choking on his words. “Just wanna make things right.”

“She doesn’t want to see you,” the woman repeats, still not looking at him.

“Can you - “ he stops to take a deep breath and gather his thoughts, trying to steady the wild beating of his heart. “Would you tell her I’m here? If she tells me to leave, I’ll leave. But I - I need to try.  _ Please _ .”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, gauging him, before she heaves an irritated sigh, finally unlocking the door and pushing it open.

“Wait here,” she says - she sounds almost threatening. She allows him no time to answer before she steps inside and closes the door behind her, locking it again. He hears her footsteps recede on the other side of the door until he can’t hear them anymore. Though the town is as busy around him as it has ever been, he feels as if he’s trapped in a cage of thick glass; everything - and everyone - sounds far away, muffled, as if reaching him through feet of deep, dark, murky water. His breath comes in short, nervous puffs, and he almost thinks he might faint.

Just when the wait is about to become unbearable, the door cracks open, revealing the familiar blue of Eliza’s eyes as she peers at him from the shadows of the house - there are dark circles under her eyes, and she’s paler than he’d ever seen her. He swallows thickly.

“What do you want?” she asks dryly. There is anger lacing her words, sharp as a knife, but he doesn’t let it deter him, taking half a step closer as he tries to prevent the thoughts he’d so carefully gathered from fleeing his mind now that the time had come to voice them aloud.

“Came to see you,” he starts. “To apologise. Shouldn’t have left you like that, and - “

“I expected you’d leave,” she cuts him off - her voice is as cold as ice. “Just didn’t think you’d run away like a goddamn  _ coward _ .”

She spits out the word like it’s a curse, and he feels like it is; the words sting, and he flinches, though he knows he deserves every ounce of her poison. He bows his head, and speaks again.

“I shouldn’t have, I know that,” he says quietly. “I regretted it every single day. It’s why I came back.”

“To make yourself feel better?” she spits. He lowers his eyes.

“To help,” he answers.

She barks out a bitter laugh, and that makes him look up; her face is twisted in anger, the feeling of betrayal plain in her eyes.

“You gonna tell me you’ll give up your gang for me?” she asked, mockingly. Her words are as cruel as a lash, each more painful than the last. “You gonna tell me you’ll marry me, be a father, and come home every night? How stupid do you think I am?”

She had opened the door wider in her rage, and he could see her better now - her face shows the hard lines of many sleepless nights, her hair is wild and had been hastily tied into a messy bun. 

“You know that ain’t somethin’ I can give you. I ain’t so cruel as to pretend I can,” he says quietly. He sees her open her mouth to say something, but he speaks again before she can. “I wanna do right by you, though. I wanna help. If you’ll let me.”

He opens his satchel, pulling out a stack of bills - more than he had ever had in all his years with the gang. 

“This is for you,” he starts, holding up the thick bundle. “There’s a house, a little ways from town, by the creek. For sale. Man there will sell it to you if you go there in the next three days. If you want, I can come by, a couple times a year maybe, give you some money. To help. Or - you can take this and leave. Go far away. Start over. You got enough for a couple months’ worth of food, at least. I’ll respect your choice, whatever it is.”

He’s almost panting when the last word leaves his mouth, and he feels exhausted. He had thought that this would smooth things over - after all, he had little more to give her and the child other than money, no matter how much he wished that things could be different. But instead, her anger seems renewed - she clenches her hand into a fist, so tight that he can see her shake, and he has no doubts that she would love nothing more than to punch him with all her might at this very moment.

“You think you can buy me off, that it?” she hisses, and he can’t help but take half a step back, so harsh is her tone. “You think I’m some kind of cheap whore? That you’ll pay me so that I’ll lay down for you whenever you want? Who do you think you are?”

“That ain’t the kind of man I am,” he pleads quietly. “You know that.”

She scoffs, looking at him with something he could almost have called hatred.

“I don’t know  _ what _ you are no more,” she answers. “Just know I don’t want you here.  _ Go. _ ”

She steps back into the house and goes to slam the door shut, and he remembers that he’d said he’d go if she wanted him to - and yet, before he knows it, he’s reaching forward, slamming his palm against the door to prevent it from closing, meeting her eyes; he just had to try to make her believe him - one last time.

“Please, Eliza,” he pleads, and something in his voice, or perhaps his eyes, seem to give her pause. “I know I did wrong. Just let me try to make it right. Let me help. Please.”

She stops trying to push the door closed, though she still doesn’t step forward again, seemingly trying to decide if she should trust him or not. She already had, once before - and it had not ended well.

“ _ Please _ ,” he manages after what seems like hours of silence.

She’s staring at him, her expression shimmering between anger and wariness; her eyes flick to the stack of bills in his hands for half a second before coming back up to meet his gaze - she doesn’t need to count it to know that it’s a lot of money -  _ a lot _ of money. 

“If I take it,” she starts slowly, and he can’t help the spark of hope that flickers to life in his heart. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothin’,” he replies immediately, truthfully. “It’s for you - both of you.”

She doesn’t trust him - he sees it plain in her eyes. It’s hard to blame her, after what he’d done. So he waits, and hopes.

Finally, she slowly holds out her hand, and he places the bills in her palm, his fingers barely brushing hers. She pulls her hand back quickly, as if burned by his touch.

“Thank you,” she says, and despite everything, she sounds almost sincere.

They stand there a moment, looking at each other, as if meeting again for the first time. He twists the brim of his hat between his fingers, opening his mouth to speak again, but the words catch in his throat.

“If I could - “ he starts, and her eyes immediately harden again, wary and guarded. “If I could come by, in a few months’ time, just to check on things… Go to the house, see how things are going. If you ain’t there, or if you want me to leave, I will. I promise.”

She looks at him for a long time, like a mother wolf would look at the hunter who had killed her pup - never before had he felt so vulnerable than in this moment, being stared down by this unarmed young woman, feeling as if she might break his neck at any moment with her bare hands.

“Maybe,” she finally says, and Arthur releases a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

“Thank you,” he answers. She steps back inside, intent on closing the door, but he extends a hand, keeping it open just enough for him to meet her gaze. “Can I… Can I see him? Her? The baby?”

Her reaction is immediate - she opens the door wide, taking a single step outside and pushing him back with one hand. Stunned, he stumbles back a few steps, and her tone is hard and cold when she answers.

“No.”

The door slams shut, and Arthur hears the lock click into place. He stands there for a long time, simply staring at the door, hoping against hope that it would open again. It’s almost sunset when Hosea finds him, still standing there; still hoping. The feeling of Hosea’s hands on his shoulder snaps Arthur out of his daze, and he feels tears well in his eyes for what must be the first time in years as he turns to look at him.

“You did the right thing, son,” Hosea says, smiling reassuringly as he pats his shoulder. “Now you can’t do anythin’ but wait. Come on. Let’s go home.” 


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a warm winter, and the snow is almost gone by the time Arthur returns to the small town. The streets are as muddy and as noisy as he remembers, but he rides through with barely a glance at the chaos around him, lost in his own thoughts. He had been thinking about coming back for months and months, always torn between dread and excitement. He’d thought things would be clearer once he actually got here - but they seemed murkier than ever.

He rides down main street at a gallop until the houses start to thin out around him; they grow sparser and sparser, until there’s just a few lining the road - he keeps riding. The last house is fading behind him when he finally sees it - an isolated little cabin, nestled against the forest, cut off from town by a small stream. He remembers it well. Even though he’s still far away, he can see smoke rising from the chimney. His heart skips a beat, and he slows his horse down to a trot.

_ Someone’s there. _

It might not be her, he can’t help but remind himself. Maybe she had taken the money and gone somewhere, far away, to start anew. And even should it  _ be _ her, he wasn’t sure she’d want to see him. He takes a deep, steadying breath as his horse splashes across the stream, trying to prevent his thoughts and fears from spiralling out of control. Lord knows they’d done so enough times in the last few months.

He’s close enough now that he can see laundry fluttering in the wind, hanging on a clothesline to the side of the house. There are sheets, and women’s clothes, and other things he can’t quite make out.

_ Baby clothes,  _ the spark of hope inside him whispers, and for once he doesn’t try to stamp it out.

He pulls on his horse’s reins, bringing it to a stop a few feet away from the house. He sits there a moment, not quite sure what to do. Should he call out? Knock? He feels like even doing the slightest thing wrong could ruin months of dreams and wishes. He slowly climbs off his horse as the thousand questions that had haunted his nights since he’d last seen her come back to assault him once more - would she be there? Would she want to see him? 

Now that he was here, there was no point in wondering anymore.

The first step he takes toward the house is unsteady, hesitant; he almost think his knee might give out when his foot finds ground again. His entire body feels as heavy as stone. He forces his other foot off the ground, taking another step, and another, and another, until, finally, he’s standing at the door. Something seems to have settled in his chest, something hard and stiff that chokes the breath from him and crushes his heart in a cold grip, and when he raises one hand to knock, he feels himself shake with something he hasn’t felt in years;  _ fear _ .

His hand is raised, tightened into a fist, and yet he can’t bring himself to knock. What right did he have to come here and try to be a part of this child’s life? What right did he have to impose the burden of his presence to a woman to whom he’d only caused pain?

_ None. _

His hand is still curled into a tight fist when he lowers it to his side, stumbling back a few steps.

_ I shouldn’t be here _ .

He had no right to this. No right to torment Eliza with his presence. No right to -

“Good work, Isaac!”

The voice shatters the train of his dark thoughts, and the laughter that follows - a woman’s, and a child’s, from behind the house - takes him off guard. Somehow, he hadn’t expected to hear something so joyous, so carefree - not _here_. Not _now._ He’s moving before he even realises he is, walking toward the sound with careful, silent steps, and as much as he tries to convince himself to stop and turn around, to leave before it’s too late, something else pushes him forward, something stronger than his fears, his doubts, and his self-hatred, though he doesn’t know its name.

He runs one hand along the side of the house as he walks toward the source of the sound, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingers. He can hear the clucking of a few chickens now, as well as the gentle voice of a woman cooing at someone unseen. He knows that voice, and a shiver courses through him -  _ she’s here. They’re here. _

There’s a low fence starting at the corner of the house, barely waist-high, and he stops there, flattening himself against the wall before leaning carefully until he can see around the corner, behind the house.

_ Just to see them. Make sure they’re okay. Then I’ll leave. I’ll leave. _

There’s a small chicken coop there, as well as a pile of wood, with an axe resting against it, and - 

Eliza sits on the grass, laughing, as radiant and beautiful as when he’d first seen her, and sitting between her thighs…

_ Isaac. _

Arthur feels his throat tighten as he watches Eliza play with their son, seemingly as carefree as she deserved to be, and he can’t help but take half a step forward, desperate to see her, talk to her, and to finally meet his son, his  _ child _ , something he’d always wanted without knowing it -

He catches himself, and retreats back out of sight, but it’s too late.

“Who’s there?”

Eliza’s voice is hard and unyielding, with no trace of the levity she’d displayed just moments before. He knows he could leave - jump back on his horse, and run away, but now that he’s seen her - now that he’s seen  _ them _ \- he finds he doesn’t want to; not anymore.

“I ain’t gonna ask again.” He hears her take another step forward while the baby giggles, unconcerned. Arthur gathers his courage, raises his empty hand above his head, and steps out from his hiding place, finding himself face to face with Eliza and the long, snarling muzzle of a rifle aimed straight at him. He sees her expression shift, from wariness to surprise to suspicion, and she doesn’t lower the gun. She says nothing, and neither does he, the silence stretching on for what seems like eons before she finally speaks.

“Can’t say I expected to see you again,” she says. “Been months. More than half a year.”

He nods, hands still up.

“Was far away,” he answers. “Out West.”

She looks at him for a long while, as if deciding if she should shoot him or not, before finally lowering the weapon. Isaac gurgles happily behind her, and he has to stop himself from stepping closer. He wants nothing more than to hold his son, but he knows that’s not for him to decide.

“Didn’t think you’d be back,” she says as she turns to prop the rifle up against the side of the house, before bending down to gather Isaac into her arms.

“I said I’d be,” he replies. He slowly lowers his hand, though he still doesn’t dare step forward. “I meant what I said. I wanna help. Much as I can.”

The sigh she heaves sounds half-exasperated, half-relieved, and though there is still some wariness in her eyes, she allows herself a small smile.

“That’s good to know,” she says, more softly than he had ever expected. She looks down at Isaac, and he does the same.

Isaac is looking at him, wide blue eyes full of curiosity and wonder, and he takes a step forward, remembering himself at the last second and stepping back again. Eliza gestures him closer, and he hesitates for a moment before joining her, standing as close as he dares, and she smiles up at him, closing the distance between them until they’re almost standing shoulder to shoulder.

“This is Isaac,” she says quietly, and Arthur reaches for him, catching himself at the last second and looking at her for permission. At her nod, he takes the baby in his arms, with more tenderness than he’d ever thought himself capable of, cradling him in the crook of his arm as if he was the most precious thing he’d ever held. 

“Hey, Isaac,” he whispers, and the baby smiles up at him at the sound of his name. “I’m Arthur. I’m your daddy.”


	5. Chapter 5

_ Something’s wrong. _

The feeling had been nipping at Arthur’s thoughts ever since he'd left camp a little more than a week ago, an uneasiness he could not define that always lurked at the back of his mind, and it becomes even stronger now that the small house is in view. He pulls on his horse’s reins, bringing it to a stop, watching the cabin from a distance. Something is amiss, though he can’t quite put his finger on it. He clicks his tongue, slowly leading his horse closer at a walk.

It dawns upon him suddenly, and the crisp autumn air suddenly feels heavy, as if a storm had just rolled in above his head and was about to break; there’s no smoke coming from the chimney. It’s a cold morning - there should be a fire going. Something cold and cruel grabs at his heart, and he spurs his horse into a fast trot.

He jumps off his horse as soon as he reaches the house, the wild beating of his heart in his ears the only sound breaking the deafening silence around him. The cabin is dark and silent -  _ empty _ .

“Eliza?” 

He had intended it as a call, but it comes out barely louder than a whisper, the name half catching in his throat as he approaches the door. He takes a deep breath.

“Eliza? Isaac?”

It’s louder this time, enough to be heard all around the small property - yet it still goes unanswered but for the echo of his voice in the empty space. Cold sweat starts running down his back as he reaches the door.

_ They’re away,  _ he thinks to himself as he raises a hand to knock - even after all these years, he still didn’t feel comfortable enough here to simply go in.  _ In town or - somewhere. _

He could have convinced himself - perhaps - had the door not fallen open as soon as his hand touched the worn wood, quietly creaking open and revealing the house’ s dark, cold interior. He stands there for a long while, his fist still raised as if to knock, his eyes sweeping over the obviously, desperately empty home where he had left his family but a few months ago.

_ This is wrong. This is all wrong. _

After what feels like hours, he lowers his hand back to his side, and forces himself to step inside. The house smells of dust and rotten food, and he stands still a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom before venturing further. His footsteps ring out as loud as thunder in the oppressive silence as he walks down the hall to where he knows the bedroom is. The door is wide open, and he’s not quite sure he understands what he sees before him; every cupboard, every drawer had been pulled open and emptied, their contents strewn across the room. Shattered glass crunches beneath his boots as he steps further in, littering the floor from what had once seemed to be an oil lamp. Clothes - a woman’s, and a child’s - are spread around the room, seemingly thrown about by someone who didn’t care where they landed.

He'd seen this before, many times, though it had usually come about by his own hand. The truth of what had happened here flickers at the edge of his consciousness, but he refuses to acknowledge its existence. 

_ Please, God, no. _

He turns away quickly, feeling bile rise in his throat as he walks down the hallway to the kitchen. The smell of spoiled food is stronger here - the stove is cold, but there’s a pot of what must once have been stew on top of it, and two bowls on the table. He feels himself shake as he presses his palm to the kitchen table, feeling the thin layer of dust that had settled there. Here, too, every possible container or hiding place had been opened and emptied, without care or regards for the food or objects stored within.

_ No. No. _

Arthur feels tears well in his eyes, but he does his best to blink them away as his gaze strays to the door that leads behind the house; where he had first seen his son, all those years ago. 

Immediately, something inside him starts to scream for him to turn away, run, and never look back; half of him already knows what he'd find, though the other half can't help but hold the foolish hope that Eliza and Isaac had truly left, to go somewhere else, leaving everything behind. His steps are stiff and hesitant as he moves toward the door, torn between the two voices inside him, the one of hope and the one of utter despair, but he had to know. He  _ had  _ to  _ know. _

_ Robbed. _

He pushes the door open and steps outside, and for a second all that greets his eyes is the lush green of the grass beneath his feet, and the reds and golds of the forest beyond - until a spot of disturbed earth draws his eye, and -

_ Murdered. _

The two crosses seem almost new, barely worn, standing straight over their respective mounds of dirt. He takes one step, then another, and another, but his legs give out, and he falls to his knees, halfway between the door and the graves. There's a long, pained sound, not quite a scream and not quite a moan, and Arthur needs a moment to realise it's coming from him, as are the white hot tears he feels streaking down his cheeks.

A long while goes by before he slowly picks himself up off the ground, stumbling a few more steps until he reaches the graves and falls to the ground once more.

"I wasn't here." 

His voice sounds like a stranger's, frail and weak. He reaches out with trembling hands to press at the mounds of bare earth, bowing his head. A sob wracks through him, and suddenly he can't seem to be able to find his breath as sob after sob claw their way out of his throat. He hunches forward, squeezing his eyes shut as he allows himself to cry in a way he hasn't in many, many years. His fingers curl, sinking into the dirt, and he wishes the earth would swallow him whole.

It's almost noon by the time he feels like he can move again, and he slowly pushes himself upright, sitting back on his heels as he wipes at his face with dirty hands, staring at the two graves before him.

_ I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _

He feels empty and numb, as if a part of himself had suddenly and painfully been ripped out, only to be replaced with an infinite void of grief and sorrow. 

_ This is all my fault _ .

His own kind - bad men, who did bad things for bad reasons - had taken them from this world. How could he still be here, and not them? He’d sinned enough to deserve to be gunned down ten times over. Why, then, was he still alive, and they dead?

_ It should have been me. _

He thinks of the gun at his side, and how easy it would be to simply hold it up to his own head and pull the trigger; he could join them, wherever they may be, and finally be free of this world that seemed to hold nothing but pain. He shakes the thought from his mind as soon as it comes, though his hand still reaches for his revolver, slowly pulling it out of its holster. He takes it in both hands, and never before has it seemed so heavy.

He could do nothing for them now - except the one thing he knew how to do, better than any other.

With the weapon in his hand, he slowly pushes himself up, and stares down at the two graves before him.

_ I'll find them. I promise. I'll find them, and I'll kill them. _

* * *


	6. Epilogue

“Never thought I’d be back here.”

Arthur’s breath fogs in the cold morning air as he listens to the silence around him, only broken by the faraway sounds of birds and the whispering of the wind in the trees above him. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, and the world is still shrouded in the half-darkness of pre-dawn, displaying the stillness it only seemed to possess in those few elusive hours, with everything still asleep or barely awake.

Arthur doesn’t feel the cold, too focused on the two weathered crosses before him. The carved names have been worn away by years of wind and rain, and ivy has crept in from the forest a few feet away, slowly climbing and wrapping itself around the aged wood. But Arthur remembers the names of those buried here - he always would.

“Hey, Eliza,” he says, kneeling in the grass. The morning dew soaks into his pants and makes him shiver, but he doesn’t care. He reaches forward, brushing his fingers against the old wood, where a name had once been. “Hey, Isaac.”

He looks up at the sky - the dull gray of early morning is slowly being pushed back by the soft orange of the rising sun, the stars winking out of existence one after the other.

“It’s been a long time,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He looks back down at the two crosses, and opens his mouth to speak again, but he feels the now familiar rattling of his breath in the back of his throat, and the cough wracks through him, suddenly and mercilessly, for what seems like hours and hours, until he thinks he might just die right then and there. But it passes, eventually, as it always does, and he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand as he catches his breath. The blood glimmers in the pale morning light, and he’s almost surprised. He can’t even taste it anymore.

“I was afraid,” he says to the two crosses before him. “Of comin’ here. Seein’ you like this again. But I ain’t afraid no more.”

He smiles to himself, bitterly, and touches the earth with an open palm.

“Won’t be long now. I’ll see you soon.”


End file.
